Always Men Like You
by Lisse Mirelien
Summary: A short story from the POV of a concert-goer in Stuttgart that one night. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Truda rolled her eyes. Whyever in the world did she have to go to this stupid concert anyway? Drat Frau Hildscheim. No teacher but she would have assigned a concert attendance to her high school music students. But that wasn't the worst of it. One, Truda didn't really care for dressing formally, but apparently concertwear was rather formal indeed. And two, her parents both had business engagements the night of the concert, so Truda had to go with her grandpa.

Now, some people thought her grandpa was pretty special. After all, he'd lived through World War II and had plenty of tales to tell of the battles. But sometimes hearing him made so much of by all the adults in Truda's life soured her own view of him. He talked slowly and couldn't always process new ideas, and he was totally hopeless with modern technology. And this was her escort to a high-class concert–she'd rather have been assigned a five-page report on counterpoint or something like that.

So she and her grandpa had sat through an hour and a half of classical music that nearly bored her to tears (although the tears might have been brought on by her pinching high heels), and now she was helping him down the grand staircase towards the concert hall's foyer. They were the last ones on the stairs; Grandpa moved as slowly as he spoke. No, wait, they weren't the last ones–a tall, thin, pale man hurried past them, jauntily swinging a cane which he apparently carried for style only. Truda personally thought it looked ridiculous, very old-school, but everyone was entitled to his opinion, and now she and Grandpa really were the only ones on the stairs. She tried to hurry him up a little bit, and they finally reached the foot.

That was when the screaming broke out.


	2. Chapter 2

"What in the world...?" Truda exclaimed. "Stay here, Grandpa, I'll go see what's up." She ran ahead into the foyer and was nearly swept off her feet by a flood of people dashing for the doors. Turning to see what they ran from, her heart nearly stopped. The black-haired man who had passed her on the stairs was holding down another concert-goer like a human sacrifice on an ancient Aztec altar. Something in the former's hand had clamped down over the victim's face, and he was feebly struggling as if in great pain. Then the torturer stood, letting his prisoner fall to the floor, and looked around–for his next target? His eyes met Truda's as she stood there in the now-empty foyer, and something in her shattered. She wheeled and ran, wishing she had never come to the concert, wishing she had a different music teacher, above all wishing she hadn't worn her heels tonight.

Truda and all the other escapees made it out into the square, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The man hadn't run after them. Was he simply a high-tech assassin, now satisfied with his success–no. He came striding out of the concert hall, greeted by a fresh chorus of screams as armor somehow materialized on him. Vaguely Truda wondered why people persisted in such an ineffective action as screams before she realized she herself had joined their cries. She began running again, trying to make for the nearest alley, and many followed her. But then suddenly the man appeared in front of her, and she reeled back. Calling on her best sports skills, Truda swiveled to the left, but her shoe heel gave way, and she fell. Pain shot up her left ankle as she lay on the street, expecting every moment to be trampled by the panicked crowd.

But no feet crushed her into the ground. In fact, everyone in sight had frozen in place, although they still vocalized their confusion. Truda lifted her head to see what had happened, her spirits rising again. The man stood in front of the concert hall and shouted above the commotion, "Kneel before me." No one responded, and he brought down his staff–no, it looked like a scepter now–on the pavement, crying louder, "I said, kneel!" Truda felt the ground shake, and the shocked crowd around her stumbled to their knees.

A cold recklessness took over Truda then.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you gunman, Guest, and yeahimgonnariskit for your reviews, the last mentioned there and TheMostRandomofRandomWriters for the follows, and all you readers for, well, reading! :) Only one more installment. I do have a Thor/OC post-Avengers fic**** in my head, but seeing as I also have a Lord of the Rings fic going on that I need to start post as well as a Hobbit fic, no promises on the Thor one. :)**

She pulled herself up using a streetlight, wincing slightly as her ankle twinged, and addressed the man. "Look, I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you're thinking or what you're carrying there, but I just wanted to thank you for making this evening so much more exciting."

He smiled–a strange smile, both dangerous, fascinating, condescending, and irritating–and calmly replied, "I am Loki of Asgard. Do explain yourself, Midgardian–but kneeling, as I believe I said before."

Truda remained standing as she continued, "I had thought this evening would be very quiet: dressing up, going to a concert, and drafting a short paper on the experience. Nothing more extraordinary would happen beyond my shoes pinching. But no, you came along, and now my heart rate has jumped drastically, one of my shoe heels is broken, and my ankle's twisted. Thank you so much for livening up my time. I just know I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight." Her mouth twisted up in a sarcastic smile.

As she blinked, Loki somehow appeared in front of her and shoved her down, murmuring, "I think I told you to kneel." Then, before she could bring her hand up and obey her impulse to smack him, he had blinked back to his former position and was addressing the crowd again. "Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state? It's the unspoken truth of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity."

Truda's brain whirled, both with the redoubled pain in her ankle and thoughts. Who and what did this Loki think he was, saying such junk? Did he escape from an asylum or something? And then, with the word _escape_, she suddenly remembered her grandpa. Had he made it out of the concert hall, or was he lying inside with the first man to fall to the wacko?


	4. Chapter 4

"You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel," Loki continued. Truda wondered if anyone else was going to voice their objections, or if all would be cowed–wait a sec. That old man creaking to his feet was Grandpa!

"Not to men like you," he said.

Loki smiled that dangerous smile again. "There are no men like me."

Looking him straight in the eye, Grandpa stated, "There are _always_ men like you."

Truda stared, open-mouthed. She knew who he thought of as he spoke: the Fuhrer he had served under threat of death. Apparently Grandpa had decided that silent safety at the cost of freedom wasn't worth it after all. Suddenly she respected him a whole lot more.

But what was Loki saying? "Look to your elder, people. Let him be an example."

Truda could do nothing to stop him as he pointed his scepter at her grandpa, still standing proud. As a streak of light shot outward from its tip, she cried, "No!" But she knew it was pointless. She forced herself to watch. She must be the witness to keep his memory alive, whether or not the world fell to this maniac named Loki.

Grandpa did not waver.

And in the blink of time before the blast reached and decimated the old man, a blur of color whizzed down and intercepted it. Truda almost cried with relief as the blur focused into a man dressed in red, white and blue. His circular shield bounced the deadly ray back at Loki, who collapsed from the impact. Then the stranger spoke.

"You know, the last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everybody else, we ended up disagreeing."

Still infuriatingly calm, Loki replied, "The soldier. A man out of time."

"I'm not the one who's out of time," the stranger replied. A hysterical giggle worked its way out of Truda at that point, and she leaned against the lamppost, shaking. As the stranger and Loki commenced a regular fight, she painfully regained her feet and limped around the confusion to her grandfather. Awkwardly she stood before him, not knowing quite how to say what she felt. But she tried anyway.

"Grandpa . . . that was awesome."

He smiled kindly at her. "You were–how do you say it?–pretty cool yourself."

The ice had broken. Truda threw her arms around him and hugged him for the first time she could remember. "Thanks, Grandpa."

As the two turned to leave, Truda noticed that Loki now stood handcuffed beside the stranger and a friend of his in a robotic suit. Was tonight unofficially Dress as Weirdly as Possible Night or something? Loki glanced her way, and a wicked impulse sparked her grin.

Then she stuck out her tongue and curtsied most elegantly.

What a paper she'd write for Frau Hildscheim tomorrow.

**And there we have it. A nice little short thing for my introduction to how the site works. Thanks for reading!**


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